


Breathing Is Boring

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had meant to make this super fluffy... And somehow, it really didn't come out that way. The voices in my head were like, no, this one won't be funny and fluffy and sunshine... THERE WILL BE ANGST! Based on a prompt from fleur (oh Fleur) that was just a picture of 2 cats stuck in a jar, telling each other off.</p><p>So I listened to those voices.</p><p>Helluva way to kick off splitting Tumblr Shorts into a series... But do let me know what you think.</p><p>TW: so... Panic attacks, claustrophobia, mild injury, references to S2, guns, bit of action, emotional anguish, cuddles... That's about all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Is Boring

**Author's Note:**

> Original Post: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/122701828988/fleurdelis221b-johnlock-prompt-again-jamlockk

It wasn’t a terribly well thought out plan. But when you see a flash-bang skitter across the floor of a warehouse, you don’t have much time to think much beyond the next few seconds. And given the circumstances, John was happier to be uncomfortable than dead. Though, the longer he spent wedged in the small space, the more likely he’d start to wish for death.

They’d pursued the suspects to the warehouse. And, against John’s better judgment, Sherlock had convinced him to investigate the interior without the backup of Scotland Yard. John had texted Lestrade anyway. And good thing for it. The investigating had turned into eavesdropping, which had turned into getting caught in rival faction crossfire, which had turned into John drawing his pistol in self-defense.

When the flash-bang rolled around the corner of their shelter, John had to grab Sherlock by the scruff of his coat and fling him down the corridor and through the first door that opened. He’d only just managed to throw his weight against the barrier to close it when the damn thing detonated. The frosted glass of the door window protected his eyes against the majority of the flash, though the contrast with the unlit room was still enough to momentarily blind. The same glass was not, however, strong enough to protect against the bang, and the pane shattered inward, spraying the back of his neck and shoulder with dulled safety shards, and the concussive wave was still strong enough to leave his ears ringing.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head and looking for Sherlock in the pitch of the room. The distinctive snap of gunfire permeated the tinnitus and John flinched into a crouch.

“John!”

When his eyesight returned, he found Sherlock in the penumbra of the shelves to his left, holding open a small grate. “No, absolutely not,” he hissed.

“John, get in!”

The shots grew closer and an explosion much too large to be a flash-bang rattled the walls. John huffed out a frustrated whine of regret. “We’ll never fit! Not the both of us!”

“We will,” Sherlock insisted. “And as neither of the armed parties outside know us, it’s rather insignificant which ones get here first; they’ll kill us either way. I’d prefer that neither do. Now get in.”

“Do you even know where it goes?” John tucked his pistol into his waistband at the small of his back.

“Down,” Sherlock said bluntly. John hesitated. It wasn’t that he was claustrophobic exactly. He just really didn’t like small spaces, in the dark, that led to God only knew where, when there were people shooting, and grenades, and Sherlock, and he wouldn’t be able to return fire. And he was the tiniest bit claustrophobic. “John,” Sherlock gave him a long look. “Please.”

John flinched, set his jaw, and eased himself through the opening. It was metal, like an air duct or a coal chute, or a garbage chute, or some sort of deathtrap, and was coated with dust. He braced, his hands and knees working against the outward pressure of his spine and started to inch down the tunnel. As soon as there was space, Sherlock was in behind him, or above him, rather, and they crept down until the grate was firmly shut and they were out of sight. It wasn’t the worst plan, but it was only a temporary solution.

John winced as his palms started to sweat and lose traction. He bit back a curse as his right hand slipped and threw a torqueing pressure into his left shoulder. And when he managed to regain his position, his arms were shaking with the effort.

“Alright?”

John snorted. “I should go back to doing press-ups is all.”

Sherlock rumbled out a laugh. “I would have thought you’d be good at this.”

“I’m not some lanky git, now am I?” John huffed back. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s teeth flash in a wide grin, then everything fell apart.

It was hard to say what started it. It could have been the explosion, it could have been the blast of heat and dust that flushed the grate and ripped down the chute, it could have been sound of gunfire from the room above, or when Sherlock’s foot knocked into John’s shoulder. But they were both slipping at an increasing velocity, and the squeal of dampened flesh against dusty metal and stuttered breath filled the narrow space. It was everything he could do to keep from falling outright, but John could feel himself accelerate, Sherlock’s muttered curse just above him told a similar story. The chute angled from vertical to oblique and the gun dug into John’s back hard enough to bruise, then he was dropped over a lip and started to fall in earnest.

Then John found bottom. He found it with splintering wood, a sharp turn of his ankle, and bitten off cry. If Sherlock had been any further behind him, things would have landed much worse. As it was, they were pressed back to front and if they both took a deep breath at the same time, they’d run out of wiggle room.

“I told you both of us could fit.”

John groaned and let his forehead rest against the cool metal. “I fucking hate you right now.” He cautiously tested bearing weight on his ankle and muttered out a long string of obscenities. Of all the stupid, bloody things to do. He couldn’t even elevate it to slow the swelling, and it was starting to throb with a dull ache that didn’t bode well for the next few days. He tried to ignore it and take stock, but the only other injuries loud enough to be heard were the bruising at the small of his back and the friction burns on his palms. He’d be sore tomorrow.

“You alright?” Sherlock’s voice was a deep rumble against his ear, made more intimate in the stillness and pitch black of the chute.

He shook his head, his forehead rolling against the metal, and the rustling of his clothes the only answer Sherlock could hear. Then again, knowing Sherlock, he’d categorized the sounds made by John’s clothing as he moved in responsive gestures. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Just give me a sec, yeah?” He took a few calming breaths before realizing that there was no way he’d be able to climb back out. “Fuck me.”

“Hm?”

“Just…” He swallowed. “Twisted my ankle and it bloody well hurts, yeah? Unlikely to be climbing up anytime soon.”

Something in the way Sherlock’s chest brushed his back and John knew Sherlock was looking up, trying to examine the chute, trying to sort their exit. “Unlikely for either of us. I’m sure there’s another way. This wood doesn’t feel terribly stable.” Sherlock’s weight shifted as he rocked up onto the balls of his feet.

“Don’t!” John reached back and managed to grab Sherlock’s thigh. “Don’t,” he whispered. “You’ve no idea what’s under this. Could be fifty feet to the floor… Or a concrete wall… Or a vat of acid.”

“Acid, John? Really?”

Something exploded and rattled the chute, showering them with a cloud of dust. John coughed, but couldn’t drown out the sound of renewed gunfire. “See,” he muttered, releasing Sherlock and leaving him to explore the space. John tried to keep his wits. It wasn’t the pain really, or the difficulty keeping his balance on one foot, or the dark, or the gunfire, or the claustrophobia, but the realization that he couldn’t reach his gun. In the cramped space, he couldn’t twist his arm back properly to free his gun, and certainly no space to aim. There were people shooting, around them, at them. People shooting and throwing flash-bangs and grenades and chasing and he couldn’t fight back. He was trapped. He was injured, and trapped, and he couldn’t reach his gun.

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

He closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists. Too much like a coffin. This was like a casket. Like all those moonless nights in the dark. Like sitting in a hide with Murray in the freezing cold. And always shooting. Being shot at. Shot.

“John,” Sherlock repeated.

It wouldn’t take much. Just a suspicion. Someone to shoot blindly down the grate, toss in a grenade or flash-bang. They’d be done. And there was nothing he could do. He clenched his jaw and felt himself sway in the narrow space. God his leg hurt. And his shoulder was aching. Maybe he should go back to resting his forehead on the chute.

“John,” Sherlock’s hands came to rest on his hips, gently squeezing. “Breathe, John.”

Oh God, he wasn’t breathing. John sucked in a sharp breath and it only made his lungs ache. Not now. No, no. He tried to pull in another breath. He didn’t realize he was shaking until he was drawn back against Sherlock’s solid frame. One of Sherlock’s palms flattened against his sternum, pressing John’s spine to Sherlock’s chest.

“John, you need to breathe.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Why was breathing so hard? _Breathing is boring_.

“John, listen to me.” Sherlock’s voice was calm but firm. “Close your eyes and just listen.”

“C-can’t see,” he heaved in air. Heaved. Breathed. Breathing… _Breathing is boring_. “It’s too dark.”

“Close your eyes, John.” He waited until John complied. Though how he could possibly know… “I’ve got you. You’re alright. But you need to calm down. Are you listening?”

Breathing… _Breathing is boring._

“Breathing is not boring, John.”

“It’s hard.”

“It’s not. Listen.”

The rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest was steady, rhythmically shifting along John’s spine as gentle puffs of air curled around his ear and cheek. It was hushed. Soothing. “Quiet,” John murmured. Sherlock rumbled a sound of agreement and John shook his head. “No, it’s gone quiet.”

It had. Even straining their ears, they couldn’t hear a hint of combat, no footfalls, no guns, no explosions. “Small blessings,” Sherlock couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” John cleared his throat. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Good. See if you can’t budge over. I’m going to try to open the floor panel.”

John huffed out a laugh. It was wet and tight, but relieved nonetheless. “Budge over where, Sherlock? I’m literally against…” John had to choke back a startled swear as Sherlock managed to contort himself into a squat and planted a hand firmly on John’s arse, pushing him into the metal barrier. “Ok, now I’m literally against the wall. Sherlock!” he objected as the hand was replaced by the side of Sherlock’s head.

“Hush. I’ll have this open in a moment.” The eerie blue glow of Sherlock’s mobile flooded the chute, momentarily blinding them.

“Sherlock.” John sighed and rested his forehead back against the metal. “What happens when that opens? Did you think of that, genius?”

“I’ve yet to be wrong today,” Sherlock mused. “Why start now?”

“Today? You’re considering getting trapped in a coal chute a victory?”

“It’s a modified laundry chute. And I told you both of us could fit. I’d hold on to something, if I were you.”

“Hold on to what?!” John tried to brace his hands on the sidewalls. “Sherlock! Wha-“ And the floor swung open and John was falling again. It was a short drop into a large skip filled with bags of soiled laundry. Sherlock sprawled against the bags next to him, chuckling. “I fucking hate you right now,” John muttered.

Things had been quiet when they escaped, because Lestrade had both received John’s text replied to Sherlock, telling him that they were on the way. Which Sherlock had conveniently neglected to tell John. He, however, would not neglect John’s injured ankle and insisted on dragging him to the A&E. John had accepted rather strong painkillers in retribution and spent the rest of the evening comfortably high and the rest of the week in a walking cast. To retaliate, Sherlock tried to coax information from John while he was high. Lestrade refused to call in Sherlock until John had healed, partially as punishment for Sherlock, and equally to punish John for being an idiot. Then again, time off work, sitting at home with a bored Sherlock Holmes might have been a touch in excess of what John deserved.

Two weeks later, they found their way back to a crime scene. Lestrade was desperate, and Sherlock was in fine form. John sat back and watched. There was spitting contempt for the Met in general, strong words for Lestrade, and impressive amounts of deductions and dramatic coat swirling. And John chased after Sherlock as he stormed off to investigate a secondary scene, and to interrogate a suspect, and to embarrass Lestrade again. Maybe John wasn’t quite over being punished with a stir-crazy, agitated Sherlock. All in all, it was a reasonable good day. And the evening was pleasant. And late enough that it was well past dinner, John was enjoying watching Sherlock explain himself to a cluster of people and try to avoid paperwork like the plague. It was a good day, until Sherlock turned to John, clutching a handful of papers, and ruined it.

“John will do them.”

He raised both brows, “I will not.”

“Please, John.” Sherlock pouted. “Please, will you do this for me?”

John froze, his body drawing to attention as everything went chillingly numb. He felt his face slowly draw into a flinch of disbelief. “What?”

Sherlock frowned. “I said please. Don’t act so shocked, I do have some manners when it suits me.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade murmured.

“Well you won’t do it; what’s the problem with me asking John to fill in the forms?” He furrowed his brow as he squinted at John. “Please. John. Will you do this?”

John felt the blood drain from his face. Right. No. He didn’t even trust himself to respond on the off chance that it wasn’t words that came out but actual bile. It wasn’t marching. He tried, God did he try, but it was more like fleeing. And when he reached the pavement, his hands were shaking hard enough that he didn’t trust his legs to keep for an angry stomp home. The taxis were cooperative, for once. And even sitting in the back of the cab, John could feel the tightness spreading through his chest. He clenched his hands between his thighs and told himself that he couldn’t do this here. Not now. Baker Street. Wait until Baker Street. Baker Street would be safe.

It took three tries to coordinate his fingers and the keys and the lock. Two tries to work the zip on his jacket when he made it to the sitting room. He missed the hook, but couldn’t bring himself to bend over and pick it up from the floor. Breathe. Fuck. He paced, short, broken steps. Aimless. And the high tight breaths were starting to wear on him. Knowing you’re in the middle of a panic attack does nothing to stop it. There was no logic in it. It was like standing in front of an avalanche with a shovel and expecting to stop the onslaught. No. He stopped moving. He stood stock still in the middle of the room and clenched his fists.

It didn’t stop. It didn’t stop the tension coiling across his chest. It didn’t stop the shaking in his hands, spreading up his arms. Hyperventilating. He was hyperventilating. No matter how he tried to swallow it back, the frustrated whine managed to escape. He needed to do something. Anything. Routine. Simple. Rote. Process.

The running water didn’t drown out the sound of the front door opening, or slamming shut. The loud bang of the tortured frame made him fumble the kettle and slosh water across the counter. He winced, refilled it and set it on the base, clicking it on.

“John?”

There had to be a towel somewhere. Or napkins. Or something to clean up the mess.

“John!”

Or if he just left it, it would evaporate. It was only water. And right now, he didn’t dare turn around.

“John, what was that?!”

He gripped the edge of the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“What?!”

Breathe. He clenched his jaw and pressed his eyes shut and that was a mistake. There was only one thing that he’d see right now and it was suffocating.

“John?” Sherlock was closer, speaking softly. Probably noticed. “What did I say?”

He shook his head. He didn’t even know. How could he not know? How? He hung his head.

“John.”

He was right there. In his space. He could feel him without looking. And it made it hurt more. “I can’t. Sherlock, I can’t…”

“Breathe.” _Breathing is boring._ John shook his head again. It wasn’t actually about the breathing, was it? Even if he let it escalate to the point of collapse, passing out generally corrected the problem. Maybe he’d let that happen one too many times; oxygen deprivation wasn’t good for the brain after all. “Breathe, John.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t tell you what to do?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his ear. “You have to breathe, John.” His hands planted on the counter on either side of John’s, framing him, caging him, surrounding him on all sides. But more than that, he was bracing them both. The impending crash. “What, John? What did I do?”

What did you do? What did you do! John lifted his head and sucked in a sharp breath. “You made me watch,” his voice broke over the last word and he was struggling for air again.

“Watch? Watch wha… Oh.” _Please, will you do this for me?_ “John.”

“I can’t.” He felt his throat closing over and winced. The shaking spread from his arms to his shoulders and down his back. “Can’t…”

They both knew he wasn’t talking about respiration. “John, you have to breathe.” Sherlock’s hands left the counter, one palm splaying across John’s sternum, the other just below his navel as he drew him back into the curve of his body. “Breathe.”

John released the counter to clutch Sherlock’s forearm, grounding himself to the very warm, very much alive body as much as clinging to the only thing keeping him upright.

“I’ve got you.” Sherlock tightened his grip. “You’re alright, John. I’m right here.”

He tried to nod.

“Listen,” Sherlock whispered. “You need to breathe for me.”

He closed his eyes. Tried to move past the blood rushing in his ears, the tight sound of his own breathing. Tried to hear the sounds of the flat. The kettle had clicked off ages ago, but like any old flat in central London, the creaks and groans of pipes and floors were ever-present. And closer than the ambient sounds were the steady inhale and exhale of Sherlock’s breath against the back of his neck. He could feel his pulse, solid under his fingertips.

“Breathe, John. Please.”

He tried. It was a short, staccato gulp, but it was a start.

“Good. Breathe into my hand.”

Another attempt was closer to a single inhale, causing his chest to heave.

“Not that hand; this one.” Sherlock’s thumb dragged across the slight pudge above John’s belt. “Deep breaths.”

It was minutes, not seconds, before John’s breathing returned to anything near normal. Before his shoulders drooped in exhaustion and one of his hands slipped from Sherlock’s arm to dangle at his side. And if in that time, he’d let Sherlock support his weight, he didn’t mention it. And if Sherlock’s cheek was resting against his temple, Sherlock didn’t mention it. But even with his eyes closed, John could feel himself breathing in time with Sherlock, in time with the gentle stroke of fingers across his chest, and if he really thought about, he was sure his heart rate had dropped to match Sherlock’s.

“You were making tea,” Sherlock said airily, meticulously easing John’s weight forward, back onto his own two feet before releasing him cautiously.

“Yeah.” John nodded and scrubbed his face. “Yeah, you want a cup?”

“I’ll make it.”

John twisted, turning to give Sherlock a skeptical glance.

“I know how to make tea, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Go take a bath. You’ll feel better for it. I’ll make tea for when you’re done.”

John nodded slowly. “Alright. And a takeaway?”

“Indian.”

The matter of fact way he said it had the corner of John’s mouth twitching. “Alright.” He took a few hesitant steps towards the bathroom, trying to get a sense of what his legs would do on their own. “You know what I like.”

“Of course,” Sherlock huffed, watching John move stiffly. “John?”

“Hm?”

“I… I am sorry.”

John nodded again, his voice lost for completely new reasons.

By some mutually painful and unspoken agreement, they didn’t talk about it. For himself, John felt raw. It had been a few years since he’d suffered from panic attacks of any significance or frequency, and they left him exhausted. Emotionally flayed and physically drained.

It took a few days to find his equilibrium again. He took a few shifts at the surgery, if for no other reason than to remind himself that he was useful. He apologized to Greg, though it was vague and perhaps insufficient; Greg accepted it much in the way he accepted all things Sherlock related: with a shrug and resignation that it came with the territory. John promised him a pint when he was feeling better. He wouldn’t drink right now.

Then London’s criminal class became interesting for a few days. And they were out on the streets, hopping from one crime scene to another. And they were good. They were a team. And they were completely in sync. Until Sherlock leapt off a bridge and into the Thames in pursuit of a suspect. A culprit, if John was feeling generous. But he wasn’t. And Sherlock could tell. Perhaps that was why he rather calmly agreed to be seen in the A&E, and in spite of his usual shenanigans, he was less contentious than normal with the doctor. He even allowed John a cuss-laden rant of rather inappropriate volume and proportion before they made it back to Baker Street.

However out of character it had been for Sherlock, once in the flat, John felt far more calm than he’d expected. Maybe there was something to be said for blowing off steam. And Sherlock was making an effort, that much was clear. He’d gone so far as to eat some dinner, though that was far more for John’s benefit than his own. And when he turned in for the night, John felt… surprisingly centered.

And that was a good thing.

Because when he started awake at half three in the morning, it was to Sherlock’s arms around him, spooning him in the bed. “Wha-?”

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Sherlock murmured.

God he was tired. “Mmn, right.” He closed his eyes. He could fall asleep again. He’d be asleep soon. It was so warm. And the way Sherlock’s fingers were just drawing lazy circles along his chest was soothing. And his other hand was just resting on his hip, palm to skin where John’s shirt had ridden up. And as good as that felt, it triggered something in John’s sleep-sedate brain. “Sh’lock?”

“Sleep, John." 

“What’re you doing here?” He rubbed his cheek against the pillow, the soft drag of cotton against his stubble not doing much to wake him further.

“Nightmare.”

“Oh,” John said simply. That made sense. Sort of. Though, he maybe thought Sherlock would have asked first. But it was Sherlock. It probably made sense to him.

“Not me,” Sherlock whispered, splaying his hand wide across John’s sternum and snugging him back against Sherlock’s chest. “You. Idiot.”

“Oh.” Normally he woke from his nightmares. Woke, startled, shook from sleep with enough panic and vigilance that he’d be awake for the day. Normally a sound on the stairs, or his door opening, or a car horn would be enough to rouse him. And somehow, Sherlock had managed to make it past the stairs, past the door, into the bed, and, quite frankly, wrap himself around John without truly waking him. Odd.

“John, I can hear you thinking. It's slow and loud. Go back to sleep.”

He huffed out a woozy laugh.

“Shh,” Sherlock shushed him again, dragging his thumb back and forth along the crest of John’s hip. “You were having a nightmare. And since you respond so efficaciously to physical comfort, it seemed as likely to be productive in the middle of the night as it has been during the day. You’d hardly have woken at all if I hadn’t sneezed.”

“Sneezed?” he asked vacantly, the few remaining ties to wakefulness unraveling.

“Your room is dusty,” Sherlock complained.

“Too busy dusting everything else,” John muttered, bringing his hand up to hook onto Sherlock’s forearm.

“Sure.”

John smiled to himself and cuddled backwards into Sherlock’s warmth. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he murmured.

“Boundaries?” Sherlock asked, burying his nose in John’s hair.

“Mmn,” John agreed.

“Sleep.”


End file.
